


Snap Decisions

by hotmess_ex_press



Category: VIXX
Genre: ??? idk what i'm talking about, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, BUT I LOVE THEM, Fluff, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Photography, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, i swear i do more than just nbin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 18:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16202873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotmess_ex_press/pseuds/hotmess_ex_press
Summary: "Anything," Hongbin half-turns in his seat, leaning towards Hakyeon. "If you could haveanythingyou wanted, anything in this whole world, and you couldn't fail, what would you ask for?"An odd smile darts across Hakyeon's face, his slender fingers still drumming, still keeping up with the steady rhythm of the old song crooning from the radio. "This."





	Snap Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> im a mess whats up

They meet in the smoking area of a botanical garden, and Hongbin would think it's funny if it wasn't so sad. He's got his camera slung around his neck and half a pack in his pocket, and he's a sucker for the romance of smoking in pretty places. The scent of flowers gets to his head, teasing and just faint enough. Hakyeon has a too-thin shirt, no jacket and not enough inspiration and a cigarette he almost had to beg for. Just one. He nods at Hongbin, standing too close for a stranger, too far away for a friend, and too gracefully for someone lighting up with a stolen match. Hongbin's fingers itch for his camera, but he keeps them tucked safely away in his pocket. Breathes deep and looks away, imagining the contents of his mind being swept out along with each puff of smoke.

The seconds inch by, collecting around the pair like the autumn dew gathered in the deep folds of the petals. The stranger drops the butt, crushes it with the toe of his boot. Hongbin can't help the frown tugging at his lips.

He _hates_ it when people do that.

It's careless. Pretentious. Who do they think they are? Really, it's just as easy to be a good person. Why bother stomping about and leaving traces of ash and guilt, _your_ guilt, everywhere you go? And in such a sacred place, as well, somewhere where people work _hard_ to keep the weeds and poison out. But here this man is, leaving behind his addictions like they're not something to be ashamed of. No thought. Towards himself, towards the plants. No thought at all.

Hongbin despises that. If there's one thing he can't stand, it's stupid, thoughtless, good-looking people.

And maybe this man realizes that, or maybe Hongbin just can't avert his eyes quick enough to hide the disgust when near-black meets chocolate brown. But, either way, the stranger kneels down and picks up the remains of his cigarette, grin too bright to be paired with such an apologetic action. He reaches around Hongbin, arms brushing, to drive it into the tray.

"Sorry," he whispers, maybe for the way he dropped the smoke in the first place, or the warmth that slowly radiates out from the spot their two arms touch, or the things his voice, smooth, rich, tickling the skin just below Hongbin's ear, does to the photographer's body. "Old habit."

The response Hongbin never would have voiced out anyway fizzles away in his throat, dissolving into dryness, as the man turns on his heel and strides away. He is effortless, all sharp angles and sun-kissed skin left over from the blistering summer.

Hongbin's fingers tap a rapid pattern, _clack_ ing against the plastic of his camera. But it's too late. The man is gone.

Surreal.

 

 

 

He's not there the next time Hongbin visits the gardens.

It's fine, though. Hongbin hadn't expected him to be, and it's not his place to hope. He doesn't have room for such a big smile in his mind, anyway. It would only crowd out all the mundane thoughts, push at his edges until those weak, transparent borders would give way, unleashing something vibrant and nameless Hongbin couldn't bear to face. The untamed, colorful version of him he hasn't seen since the last time someone told him they loved him.

No, a smile like that spells trouble.

Hongbin buries himself in the dahlias and the chrysanthemums, and pretends they look just as lovely as they did last time.

 

 

 

It's raining. Pouring, even, angry, fat drops, indignant at the thought of being replaced by snow in just a couple months. Car headlights turn the puddles along the road into melty shadows of cherry and gold, shocking against all that grey. Neon signs flicker citrus, electric orange and lime. It would look good, summed up in a sparkling snapshot to hang on an ivory wall somewhere, Hongbin muses, twirling his umbrella. His socks are soaked from dragging his fake-leather toes through the pools of glittery dark.

There's a figure hunched over on the bench outside the convenience store, draped in black and rain. Plastic bag at their feet, cheap ramyeon and cartons of milk poking out of the top. Colors seem to smudge around them, halo-like, and Hongbin nearly pulls out his phone, almost wants to take a shaky photo and blur out the rest of the world even further. But the fingers that slip out of warm pockets to flit over the cold metal of the bench, pale only in the absence of moonlight, seem familiar in their elegance. Recognition is like a lighter snapping on in Hongbin's chest, and he swallows down the desire, to save the melancholy scene, to capture the man's eerie silence. It's the same sensation he had back at the gardens; if Hongbin _were_ to ensnare this stranger, trap a snippet of his soul in immortal essence, (cigarettes swapped out for noodles, hydrangeas and asters for a wash of clouds), then the memories would swallow _him_ up, instead, and _he_ would be the one owned.

So Hongbin walks up, eyes trained on dirty sneakers that must be at least as wet as his own knock-offs, and tries not to sound too tired.

The man's eyes are wide with gratitude, soft with regret, and smudged with eyeliner when Hongbin offers to walk him home, shoulders tense, apprehensive. Hongbin likes the coral that tops his cheeks when he smiles, thankful, and fights off his own grin.

"I'm Hakyeon," he says, quiet but not shy, as if making sure Hongbin has to work to hear his words. Hongbin doesn't mind, Hakyeon's voice honeyed tea against the chill of night and incessant roar of traffic.

"Hongbin," he replies. Hakyeon's bag rustles as he shifts it from hand to hand.

Hakyeon leads them to a poorly-lit apartment building on a street where all the starving artists and seedy screen-writers and young widows live, pretty but forgotten, vines crawling up chipped paint, and Hongbin's gaze flicks down to the convenience store bag- _Come Again!_ in bold red letters with a stretched-out smiley face. The milk is banana flavored.

"Thank you, again," Hakyeon speaks, pulling him out of his daze with a light hand to his shoulder and a genuine tone. Hongbin nods and waves him inside, standing transfixed until the doors click closed, the smell of fallen leaves and rain. Thunder swells in the air.

Hakyeon is ethereal, beaming, even in the bitter weather and measly streetlamps.

 

 

 

Hongbin is pulled each direction, in equal measure.

He's been alone, for a while. A prisoner of sorts, blank grey walls and pristine shelves. He hates bare walls, but he hates the thought of doing something for himself even more. Lost, not quite found, living through his work. Images coming in square patches of color. It all goes outward. He feels like nothing beyond his skin and a way with angles.

What does his laughter sound like, after all these years of solemnity? What does it taste like, to breathe with lungs already full of air?

He doesn't know anymore. He's grown scared of himself, in a way. He's grown scared of anything beyond what he understands.

Hongbin understands _this_. White carpet, the snap of a shutter, rhythmic motions and the hum of a vacuum cleaner. There is a safety in his life, and a sort of desperate apathy. The need to feel absolutely nothing.

He doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to love.

Doesn't want to _be_.

He's scared.

 

 

 

"I think we should be friends," Hakyeon states.

He snatches the phone from Hongbin's hands, typing in his number with a practiced ease. Hongbin is too surprised to protest. There's a light shining in Hakyeon's eyes, one he doesn't dare to disturb. If he did, would it upset the balance of the universe? Hakyeon has a gravity about him, one that ropes in flirty looks and random coins dotting the sidewalk. An aura that promises adventure and luck.

"Okay," Hongbin mutters, moments too late. Hakyeon glows.

Across the street, bells twinkle as people enter and exit the coffee shop. The early-morning serenity has yet to be broken by the mobs of rush hour, birdsong still rising above the awakening of the city. Clear skies, an unbroken awning of violent blue, arch over them, the faded oranges and browns of fall stark contrast to the crispness. Hongbin gets caught up in the curve of Hakyeon's smile as he sends himself strings of emojis, knee bouncing underneath the rust-glazed picnic table.

It's peaceful, but there's that little prick of doubt and reluctance, unfolding slowly in the back of Hongbin's mind.

"Let's go," Hakyeon orders, tossing Hongbin his phone, and what can he do but follow?

 

 

 

Hongbin takes pride in his mask. He is like a peony bud, tightly furled, twisted into a delicate, compressed globe. Perhaps one wrong move, too heavy-handed, too delayed, too brisk, would undo him, snap him apart at the place where pink bleeds into green.

A million petals, some pure white from the absence of sunlight, a flash of apology scattered like the sum of regret and relief.

But Hakyeon, Hakyeon is patient, fingers nimble and deliberate. Hongbin doesn't bother trying to grow thorns.

 

 

 

The bandage around Hongbin's finger itches uncomfortably, irritation skittering tight underneath his skin. He had nicked himself with his shitty utility knife, sharpening pencils. God _damn_ it, but he's stupid. Why can't he just use a normal sharpener, like a _normal fucking person_? Fucking _dumbass_. What was he doing? Trying to be interesting? Trying to be _poetic_? Idiot. He pulls at the edge of the bandage, picking at the cut. Half aggravated, half passive. Blood wells up and over once again, a tiny sliver of metallic red, spilling back into the russet-stained cotton, running along the microscopic channels of his index fingers.

"Stop that," Hakyeon suddenly commands, hand darting out to separate Hongbin's. "Let it be."

Hongbin stares for a moment, wide-eyed, his thoughts displayed painstakingly, perfectly, in the twitch of his jaw. Hakyeon stares back, a silent, furious battle of wills. Hakyeon is unbreakable gold in the dim evening light, lips glistening with spiked apple cider and sunset. _What is he doing here?_ Hongbin finds himself wondering, not for the first time. That smile alone should have been enough to guarantee him a spot on the stage. Why _here_? The cold roof of a ramshackle building, spread across two rickety chairs and an iron table padlocked to the stair railing, offering Hongbin the support he's never had in the first place?

Hakyeon loses when warmth floods his gaze, shoulders rounding forward. "Don't be like that, Binnie. I can feel you overthinking."

Hongbin sighs, looking away. The city is illuminated in fleeting bronze. Hakyeon's request is about as impossible as the bittersweet flourish in his eyes. It feels like thinking is the only thing Hongbin _can_ do, the one, minute sensation he has control over. And yet...

Wishes for a phantom touch still lick their way into the chilly cavern of his mind, despite the daylight's attempts at driving them off. Hakyeon is still glorious, and Hongbin dreads the prominence of this fact. Hakyeon is _glorious_ , terrifyingly so, and--

The street lamps burst to life, imprisoning all those dangerous thoughts in their unfailing glare.

Hongbin breathes gratitude.

 

 

 

In the chaos of a crowd, it's impossible not to feel small.

Hongbin thanks every star in the universe for that.

His troubles are drowned out by a harmony of interweaving voices and neverending footsteps. Hongbin falls into the comfort of becoming insignificant, a blotted whisper of ink upon the earth.

He stands at the corner, taking pictures, avoiding curious glances.

At the end of the day, he looks over what he's captured. A surge of laughter here, rippling through a group of black-clad friends, all purple-stained but brilliant. The skeletal figure of a pale, green-eyed girl there, fur coat hanging loose and all-encompassing off of thin shoulders. Hongbin had stolen that shot as she exhaled carefully, smoke trailing behind her, lost eyes, too emerald to be completely natural, fixed on something just past Hongbin's head. He especially likes that one, the bare almost-blue of her dress mournful against the deep hues of the busy street.

(Why can't he block out that annoying worry that repeats, repeats, repeats each time he closes his eyes? The one that crows out, _these aren't the ones you want to photograph. Not at all. Why can't you--_

The reminder always cuts off right there, because Hongbin doesn't even know what he's missing. _What_ can't he do?

There is no answer.)

 

 

 

Hakyeon seems surprised at the lack of... _anything_ in Hongbin's apartment.

"It's so much nicer than mine. Cleaner," Hakyeon giggles, looking through Hongbin's cabinets like they hold the meaning to life. Hongbin trails after him, so transparent, so transparent in comparison. "But it's...impersonal. Yeah, impersonal. I would have thought you'd at least have some photographs. You know, you've always got that clunky thing around your neck. Or paintings! I don't know. _Something_."

Hongbin shrugs, lifts one shoulder, then the other. "I don't know, either."

Hakyeon tiptoes through the halls, socks sliding on the polished floors. He moves his arms, fingers curved just so, in elegant circles. His sweater is raspberry-bright, worn and forgiving. He twirls a bit, caressing the air. He is like a fairy, an elf, all ease and allure. Hongbin's chest constricts. Hakyeon belongs in a fairytale, not the grey-blue walls of Hongbin's life.

"Binnie," Hakyeon croons, the nickname settling in the room like sea mist. "What are you thinking of?"

A forced grin, harsh and unnatural, would never slip past Hakyeon. So Hongbin lets a sad, fond smile melt onto his lips instead. Wistful. "Nothing."

 

 

 

Later, Hongbin finds a shoebox with old letters underneath his bed. It's horribly cliché. It's frighteningly endearing. The last few are signed with scrawly hearts to accompany his name. He shoves them away again, and breaks down in the shower, wishing for something he can't quite name.

 

 

 

Hakyeon looks good in Hongbin's kitchen, a hurricane of life compared to the order and decided iciness of the quiet rooms. He is yielding and gracious where the stiff angles are not, rushing in with all his colors to fill in the open spaces. There is a lot of them, of blunt and unhurried nothingness, but Hakyeon is just enough everything to make up for it. A burnt orange sweater today, and mismatched socks, one with hamburgers printed on it, the other black-and-white striped. A bit sweaty from his dance classes, and hungry enough to steal Hongbin's oranges and arrange the peels into a flower on Hongbin's glass coffee table.

He looks good, but _good_ doesn't mean _at home_.

(If he's being honest with himself, which he probably isn't, Hongbin doesn't feel too at home, either.)

"Come on," Hongbin tosses Hakyeon's keys at him. "Let's go to your place."

There is surprise, but it's muted and thoughtful. Hongbin is grateful. Hakyeon heads to his car without complaint, and turns the heat on full blast.

"You're quiet, Hongbin," Hakyeon says, slender fingers tapping along to the old song creaking from the radio. "What's on your mind?"

Hongbin shrugs, tracing raindrops on the window. Their friendship is push-and-pull, Hongbin gazing out of the window, or into his coffee, or at Hakyeon's still profile as day gives to night. Hakyeon smiling, exquisite, coaxing the words out of Hongbin as if each one is worth the world. _It's_ not _worth it,_ Hongbin wants to shout. _There's nothing you want to hear!_ But Hakyeon is always there again the next day, last drops of summer gleaming on his cheekbones. Real, but still so perfect, ready to let the silence sink in, or replace it with words of his own. He deserves more. He deserves love and laughter to rival his own, but here he is, giving it all away like it's easy. Like Hongbin matters.

"There's..." Hongbin's voice is barely audible underneath the unceasing pattern of rain against the roof of Hakyeon's car. He clears his throat. "There are a lot of places for you, in this world. You know that? You could have a lot more than you do now."

Something in Hongbin's reply lingers dreamlike and pensive in the stale air. Hongbin's head hurts. "But would I be as happy as I am now?"

"Anything," Hongbin half-turns in his seat, leaning towards Hakyeon. "If you could have _anything_ you wanted, anything in this whole world, and you couldn't fail, what would you ask for?"

An odd smile darts across Hakyeon's face, still drumming, still keeping up with his steady rhythm. "This."

They pull into the parking lot and walk slow under the weeping clouds, conversation falling into the sounds of rush hour. They take the stairs, shoes damp and squeaky and leaving little puddles of their own. Hakyeon's apartment is cold, the floors like ice under their bare feet, but Hakyeon peels their sweatshirts off and piles blankets over the two of them. He sneaks frozen hands up Hongbin's undershirt, and everything smells like cinnamon. Hongbin sighs, this close to content.

"What about you?" Hakyeon asks after a while. "What would you ask for, if you could have anything? Whatever you want. It's yours."

"I don't know," Hongbin whispers. He feels sheer, shaky and worn out. "I was going to _go_ places, Hakyeon."

That look is back, and Hakyeon tilts his head up, staring at the spidery ceiling. He sags into Hongbin, something so close to resignation. "Weren't we all?"

 

 

 

"Stay here tonight," Hakyeon demands, a plead crouching in the back of his throat.

Maybe he's expecting a _no_ \--but there's no reason why Hongbin shouldn't. It saves time, and energy, and warmth. Hakyeon's apartment is cozy and small, and his coffee tastes a million times better than that fancy stuff Hongbin buys from the expensive grocer across town. There's plenty of blankets to go around, and Hongbin is no stranger to sleeping on the couch.

"Alright," he agrees, eyelids already drooping as he runs lazy fingers over the armrest of Hakyeon's scratchy sofa. Hakyeon's stance changes, and he begins to say something, but even his sunshine-sugared voice isn't quite as enticing as the continuous pull of sleep. Hongbin sinks under, and spices and regret cloud his rainbow-bitten dreams.

 

 

 

Morning is good to Hakyeon.

Hongbin notices this before he can catch himself. To his dismay, the admiration makes itself known far before the jealousy. For a few moments, he feels himself suspended in reverence, longing for something the moon can only hint at and the day is oblivious to. Hongbin _is_ an artist. He appreciates pretty things and Hakyeon is no exception. But artists preserve their pretty things, wrap them up even better and nudge them until only their best sides face forward, then put them up high on a shelf for the whole world to wonder at. _This_ is where Hakyeon is different. Hongbin wants to marvel at the entirety of Hakyeon, the fears and the hopes and the effulgent eyes that hold it all in, then shield his pure, _pure_ laughter from the grit and grime of the world he's already changed too much for.

Hakyeon shifts in his sleep. Faint sunlight slips in through the crack in the curtain and slices across his face like a trim little scar, too thin, too timid, too light. Even the stars cannot resist him. The need to _touch, touch, touch_ is overwhelming.

Hongbin hurries along into Hakyeon's kitchen, and brews coffee with trembling motions. The threat is now unquestionably clear, looming above the slow morning like a thick fog. Hongbin _gets_ it. That pinch in his heart...

"Hi," Hakyeon yawns, and plops onto a stool at the counter behind Hongbin. His eyes will be puffy and his hair will be a mess, and it will ache all too much if Hongbin doesn't steel himself now.

 _You can't do this_ , he reminds himself. No poison this time, just pity. _You can't fall in love._

"Morning," he grins, turning to hand Hakyeon his steaming mug. "Sleep well?"

"Well enough," Hakyeon responds, beaming. He's too cheerful for such an early hour. Swinging his legs, he hums as he sips his drink, and Hongbin grips his own cup too hard, just to keep himself from reaching out.

 

 

 

Really, Hongbin is stupid for not seeing it earlier. He's even more stupid for not trying to stop it, but Hakyeon sings along to the love songs on the radio like they _mean_ something, and that's infectious. He tries to imagine himself writing Hakyeon notes and signing them with hearts like the protagonist in a lovestruck-teen movie, _exactly how he used to be_ , and breaks out in hysterical laughter that echoes around his empty bedroom.

Hakyeon would be disgusted. _Hongbin_ is disgusted, more than he's ever been, and he's seen himself overflowing with heartbreak over a love that never even existed. Hakyeon is no philanthropist, but he's kind, and he shouldn't have to see Hongbin scrambling to rebuild the sense that has grown weaker with every cheeky remark and careless touch. If it took this long to destroy...

Hongbin breathes in deep, the scent of clouds and jasmine. God _damn_ , he even _smells_ cold. He coughs out all that ugly-sweet air and lets himself cry. The thought of Hakyeon is suffocating.

He can only blame himself, so he does.

 

 

 

It's the same building, the same roof, the same sunset. It's all the same, but the fire blazing across the sky feels like the end of the world. The wind howls contempt.

"What's wrong?" Hakyeon asks, fiddling with the spoon in his hot chocolate. Hongbin leans against the brick wall across from him, knees tucked up to his chest, and shuts his eyes tightly. The backs of his eyelids burn dark red, the sun persistent, demanding. Hakyeon, still demanding, but merciful. Just as blinding. He won't let it go.

Not until he leaves, anyway. And he _will_ leave. Hongbin has never been more sure of a single thing in his life. Hakyeon will realize all of the things he's wasting; time, energy, the brilliance so unique to _him_ , and replace it with all of the things he could claim in the blink of an eye; youth, fortune, contentment. Hongbin _will_ drive him away, and better now, before he starts believing in something beyond the tremulous, indefinable harmony they share, than later.

There is a touch of fear when Hakyeon speaks again. " _Hongbin_. Talk to me."

"It's," Hongbin clenches his jaw, and gasps against the light when his eyes open. Hakyeon could sweep right through Hongbin's life like a plague, whisk away all the breath and leave whatever's left starving and ruined. He doesn't have to stay. Never did. Why should he? He owes Hongbin nothing. A mistake, all of it, a tiny lapse in the way of things.

Hakyeon waits.

"You're..." Hongbin licks his lips and averts his gaze. Pained. "Hakyeon, you're _beautiful_."

There's stillness for a moment, and tearful darkness. Hongbin can't look. Seeing Hakyeon angry, seeing him horrified, seeing him with disappointment written all over his perfect features, it would crush him. But Hakyeon moves close, cages Hongbin in with his arms, and Hongbin gets dizzy off of his warmth and cinnamon. He's close enough to touch. Hongbin is guilty enough to shatter. _Hurt me_ , he thinks. _If that's what you need. Anything you need._

He's never felt smaller, more breakable, but then gentle hands tilt his head up, and Hakyeon kisses him so softly it aches more than anything.

 

 

 

"You don't have to be scared of loving me," Hakyeon states.

It's half a step away from a whisper, threatening to be flung far, far away in the freezing wind. Hakyeon moves as if the world might spoil this moment if it heard, silky lips forming silky words. Their feet dangle over the edge of the fire escape, and Hakyeon nudges Hongbin's ankle. Hongbin shakes his head.

He's _terrified_. It's been so long since he's cared about _anything_. Hongbin would hate being the one to drain away Hakyeon's colors. Endlessly, _endlessly_ stealing everything he doesn't have, everything that wells up, boundless, in Hakyeon's heart. He couldn't bear being the one to ruin Hakyeon. But how could he _not_ , being who he is? He would stain Hakyeon, _infect_ him. He doesn't even remember how to love. How can Hongbin give Hakyeon what he needs, without taking what he wants?

And, above all, losing Hakyeon would be far too easy.

"Really, it's not hard," Hakyeon continues. He slips his hand into Hongbin's, palm sweaty and reassuring. He blows smoke into Hongbin's face and passes him their cigarette. "All you have to do is feed me. And kiss me. Give me affection, and I'm yours forever. Simple."

Hongbin laughs, but it does nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. "Is it?"

Hakyeon's eyes are on him, but Hongbin focuses on the spirals of smoke they leave behind instead. Rueful. But Hakyeon can see right through him.

"Yeah. It is."

 

 

 

Hakyeon holds Hongbin too tight, like he's the last, ephemeral tendrils of a dream he's only too desperate to remember. He holds Hongbin like he's the last thing left to love. Hongbin clutches him right back.

"I'm not going anywhere," Hongbin tells him. The river roars its agreement, and the market bustles. Last of the season. People drift from booth to booth, noses buried in their knit scarves, pastries and paintings and vintage buttons. Hakyeon grasps a cup of hot tea in his free hand.

"You say that like I am," Hakyeon chuckles, pulling him away from a collection of old records.

Hongbin jostles him. "Maybe you are."

"Am not!" Hakyeon pouts, and he leans in to quickly press his lips to Hongbin's. He beams at Hongbin's shocked expression, and touches their foreheads together, childlike. "I like you too much for that."

They wander for a while. They're quiet, but they always have been. Too many words are just clutter, Hongbin thinks. He's always believed that, and it leaves more room for listening, anyway. Sunlight pierces through the air and the spaces between the last coppery leaves sharp and clean, shadows tossed haphazardly around the square. Hakyeon blends right in with the constant noise and insatiable pace, while still slowing down just enough for Hongbin. Hongbin could look at him forever.

"Hey!" Hakyeon points at a stall and surges forward, dragging Hongbin along. "Flowers!"

Hongbin grins as Hakyeon trails his fingertips over clouds of bubblegum and crimson, periwinkle and emerald. Hakyeon lingers over the sunny yellow ones, and Hongbin doesn't miss the way he snaps a couple blooms from one bouquet when no one else is watching.

"You thief," Hongbin teases after a while. Hakyeon giggles. "A flower smuggler."

"They were too nice to pass by," he tucks one into the lapel of his jacket, and the other behind Hongbin's ear. Hongbin curses the blush that's certain to be rising up in his cheeks. "Happy, yeah? I like them."

_Happy._

Hakyeon is stunning, in this light, with that unrestrained smile, when he's clasping Hongbin's hand securely and sweetly in his own, _always_. Hongbin lifts his camera and finally snaps a picture, of that vibrant blossom against the satiny black of Hakyeon's jacket. Just to prove to himself that this is all real.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for not having posted in so long!
> 
> Comments and kudos are loved and cherished forever


End file.
